Lock, Shock, and Barrel
by onemoremistake
Summary: It isn't that Jo's averse to spending Christmas with Sam. Naw, he's fine; she's just averse to spending Christmas hunting a monster that kills Santa impersonators with Sam. Especially since it's a monster from her past. Part 2, Words Against Skies series
1. Ever more malicious

**A/N:** This fic is part two of an AU series I'm working on called Words Against Skies. (If you haven't read the introduction book, _Dead and Content_, I suggest you do, otherwise you may be confused…) This series involves the concept of Sam Winchester and Jo Harvelle working as a hunting team post 3x11: Mystery Spot. It's sketchy, and angsty and rough. But, again I ask you to bear with me here in hopes part two will be finished by Christmas. (I'm still waiting for Santa to bring me Jensen and Jared on top.) So without further ado, I give you _Lock, Shock and Barrel_.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural– you can ask **Nitefang**, as I've complained to her over this a billion times.

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><p>part two, words against skies<p>

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><p><em>we're his little henchmen<em> / _we take our job with pride_

Tim Burton.

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><p>It's been four months, maybe five, maybe forever since Jo Harvelle last saw Sam Winchester.<p>

She'd been on her own for a while when an old family friend, Dennis O'Callaghan, phoned in and asked her to pick up a hunt for him in Old Hollywood. The place was called _Valentine Hotel,_ and was haunted by malicious hoodoo minions with a knack for catching Jo off-guard while she was naked. Upon arrival, she'd stumbled into Sam, the infamous Winchester now that his older brother's dead and gone. See, most of the time you hear that where that shiny black car is, death has followed close behind.

Jo's never believed it.

Sam saved her ass a good number of times at that damned hotel, and she'd even saved his from the evil bitch of an owner, Trish Feldman, in return. Yeah, _that_ Trish. The Trish who's a witch by trade and made a deal with the Devil– a deal with the yellow eyed demon that's been after Sam ever since he walked in on his girlfriend roasting against the ceiling of their apartment. Hey, Dean might not have shared her bed and stuff, but that didn't stop him from telling Jo things.

Jo won't admit it, but she kind of misses Sam on those lonely nights of highway and headlights; even misses Dean at times too. She's been on the hunt for Trish for what seems like an eternity, since the bitch got away in the middle of Jo untying Sam from a pole in a laundry room with billowy sheets that Jo still gets the shivers from when thinkin' about it. Just like when _The Doors_ starts playing in the background...

But it's imperative she finds Trish, bad memories or not, 'cause the psycho has information that Jo needs to know. Like if it's possible that Yellow Eyes is coming back. What he wants with Sam even though the boy's visions got dead along with their creator.

Jo's talked to Rufus, about the Apocalypse and what it means that Yellow Eyes is still communicating even though Dean shot him right in the heart with the Colt she's heard a million rumors about. Apparently once things are dead, even in Hell, they like to rattle the chains a lit'le. Like to get a vessel for world domination. A vessel like Sam. And Rufus knows his shit too, so Jo's been serachin' for Trish ever more malicious.

And when she's stagnant, signs of Trish vanished, Jo often wonders how Sam is doing, if he's found this _Trickster_ thing he's after. But she guesses she won't know, and she's okay with that.

She's okay with the fact that people think she's too stupid to do the job and makes stupid mistakes, too. 'Cause hey, Jo Harvelle isn't stupid when it comes down to it, when it matters. She might be a lit'le naive, a lit'le bit of a romantic with half-baked notions, a school girl, a freak with a knife collection– but she isn't stupid.

And she can do the job just fine.


	2. Steady where she stands

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.

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><p><em>first we're going to get some bait<em>

Tim Burton.

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><p>Jo has been after Trish like a bloodhound after a fox. She's had some close calls, even nicking the bitch with a rifle shot back in Lewiston, but that's only been <em>close calls <em>and no actual call. The trail's been cold for a week, and Jo hasn't heard anything from Dennis, who's been tracking Trish's credit cards.

In other words, life is dull.

Jo's had one hunt since Hollywood, and it was a simple nymph problem in Chicago that took three days to cure– the thing just had an itch that needed to be scratched and Jo found a guy perfectly willing to help.

Her mom's called a couple of times, talked about the Roadhouse II up and in production with all the old regulars stoppin' by, but Jo's never made good on the promise to look for herself. Instead she chooses to follow after Trish and hope for a call from Sam that she asked him to make but he never actually did.

Right now though, Jo's taking a rest. All that bullshit in the back of her mind. It's Thanksgiving and Molly Chaplin, a girl Jo met at a rest stop on the way to Hollywood, has invited her to dinner at her and her boyfriend's apartment in Sacramento.

Jo's been here before, having made a visit right after parting ways with Sam at the _Valentine Hotel_ and all, and even a couple more times between Trish sightings too, but she's still not used to all the color and flare Molly's brought to the place since moving in. All the _pink_. Vince– the boyfriend– adores the girl too much to even say anything about the pink quilt draped 'cross the back of the ragged old couch in the middle of the living room.

And right now, Molly's curled up into it, bragging about the fact that she and Vince finally had sex.

Jo knows a lot about Molly. She knows the girl is fifteen, and awkward, and really likes red licorice, scarves, and kids. Her favorite word is _doodle_ and she adores the color black. When she was twelve she tried nursing a wounded bird back to life but it died in her hands; she cried for three hours. Her mother is a crack addict and her kind-of stepfather molested her for two years before Molly stabbed him in the shoulder with a screwdriver and ran off. She wants to be an actress or a singer or maybe a vet, and Jo's the only blonde that's ever paid attention to her. She's got a Mary Poppins sort of bag and somehow knew Jo's favorite book is _Catcher in the Rye_. Oh, and Molly considers people boyfriend and girlfriend if they've kisses.

Jo guesses that Molly thinks she and Vince are married no just 'cause they fucked. Or _made love_ as Molly so dreamily puts it.

Vince is a quiet kid, with ruffled black hair and a killer British accent when he tries. He spouts off random facts that don't pertain to the situation, but makes a good casserole and washes Jo's clothes for her when she swings by, so she likes him. It's perfectly fine for her that in all intents and purposes, he was Molly's first. Jo had showed the girl at a rest stop back in Nevada how to punch someone's nose into their brain, so she guesses it was consensual too, since Vince is still living.

"I was surprised it didn't hurt," Molly's spieling, Jo adding all the _mm_s and _awe_s when need be. "I mean, with…well, y'know, _him_, it always hurt and I didn't want to. But with Vince… Oh, Jo, it was so magical!"

Jo smirks, putting her hair up into a ponytail. She used to not do ponytails 'cause they reminded her too much of pigtails which she hadn't worn since John Winchester walked into a bar and ruined her life, but sometime during her stay at _Valentine_ she forgot about that, and doesn't even give a shit anymore. Besides, she just took a shower and doesn't want the wet strands stickin' to the back of her neck.

"I mean, we just…we didn't even plan it," Molly gushes. "We were just lying in bed the other night and I just rolled over and he kissed me, and then… Gah! Have you ever had sex?"

For a moment, Jo just stares at Molly like the girl's an idiot. Or maybe just a lit'le naive. So then Jo laughs, nods. "Yeah, a couple of times."

"What was your first time like?" Molly asks, black spikes of her hair in her overly green eyes as she eagerly leans toward Jo. "Who was it with?

"A friend," Jo says.

Actually, it was with a hunter seven years her senior. She was eighteen, about ready to go off to college and she was scared shitless and was tired of bein' a virgin behind a bar and so she flirted him into the sack. He was a decent guy anyways, always tellin' her about his hunts and teaching her fighting moves out in the field by the Roadhouse. And damn good with his hands too. Not bad on the eyes, either.

He'd stayed with her the morning after, and they'd talked a lit'le about the hunting trade, how he wanted to take her on a real date, when Ellen ended up catching 'em and cursed the poor guy off the property. Jo saw him a few more times after that in secret, but eventually the life caught up to him and he died three months into Jo's short-lived college career. A rogue djin that drained him dry.

"He was a good guy," Jo says, teeth gritted. She gives Molly the PG version, leaving out the part about the way he'd been polite enough to finger her first so it wouldn't hurt as much when he popped the cherry she'd been so eager to get rid of. Instead she says, "He made sure I had a couple of orgasms."

Molly blushes, looking down at her paisley skirt. "Vince started crying afterward. He'd never done it before, and he said it was just so great and he was so nervous that he felt so relieved he just had to cry…"

Jo laughs, 'cause that's exactly what she imagined Vince doing. "Don't we know how to make Thanksgiving small talk?"

Molly grins, eases in to how Jo's doing, and the blonde lies through her teeth. Somethin' about vacationing in Florida. It isn't as fabricated as the first time Jo came to visit, and Molly asked her about the false ghost hunt she'd been on, about the reason Jo had asked her to call her mom just in case, and never had time to give her the number. The only cover that Jo had been able to think of at the time was that she was in a car accident, the reason she was so torn to smithereens. In reality, it had been the fault of Trish and her hoodoo minions and even partially Sam. But that's whatever, 'cause Molly just fretted over Jo and her truck, which didn't even have a dent in it to cover for the lie.

By the time that Vince finally gets back from the store with the milk Molly sent him after an hour ago– Thanksgiving rush, he tries to explain– the turkey is burning in the oven and it smells like smoke. They end up eating the dry parts, with cold roles and mashed potatoes. It's a kind of feast that Jo missed last year after the Roadhouse went ka-bloo-ey. She remembers how Ash always used to eat so much he'd barf, and then eat more, and then watch football, and then get drunk, and then sleep on the pool table.

So she stuffs her face for him, thinks about Sam and the way he thought she couldn't eat more than a bird back at _Valentine_ and takes seconds to boot. When all is said and done she crashes on the couch like always when she stays with Molly, and kicks irately at the pink quilt. Her and blankets don't mix.

Much like her and felines.

Two visits ago, Molly adopted a cat she named Gabriel. It's a fat, brown tabby that seems to love Jo a lit'le too much and sleeps on her face whenever he gets the chance. Tonight's no exception, and Jo shoves the cat off in a huff, sits up and glances at her phone– an old Envy she replaced the broken one from Philly with. The screen reads it's three in the morning, dead hour. Sighing, she grabs the cell from off the coffee table and gets up.

Takes her jacket and boots from by the door a lets herself out into the hall. Molly gave her a key to the place, so she doesn't have to worry about getting locked out as she takes the three flights down into the street and starts walking.

She thinks about her dad. About John Winchester and the history their families have. _My daddy shot your daddy in the head…_

She makes it ten blocks before her phone starts ringing. When she answers it, she coughs 'cause the cold air has tampered with her speech functioning. "Hello?" Jo asks, voice slurred and rough.

"Jo Harvelle?" Girl, have you been smoking? You sound like you're smoking now." Jo can tell right away by the tone that it's Bess Turner, Rufus's niece.

"No, Bess," Jo says, smiling. "I'm not smoking."

"Well good," Bess says. "Lung cancer killed my daddy, and I won't have it killing you."

"How ya' doin' Bess?" Jo laughs, leans against the nearest wall for a breather.

"Can't complain," Bess says, and Jo can hear the laughter of children in the background. "Jake! Steven! Did I not tell you to go to bed? What are you doin' up?" Bess disconnects a moment, and Jo's glad she isn't those children, especially when Bess gets back on, panting and cursing under her breath. "Sorry about that."

"Not a problem," Jo says, licking her lips. "Not to be brash, but is there a reason you called so late, Bess?"

"Well, if you must know, Uncle Rufus phoned me a while ago, asking if I knew anything about Sam Winchester. And well, I contacted the grapevine…"

Suddenly, Jo's on high alert, up and steady where she stands. "What'd ya' hear?"

"Girl, you wouldn't believe. You know his older brother's dead, right? Well see, Sam has this theory that he's seen Dean die a thousand times before, and he'd always wake up to find it was the same day again. Said they were going after a Trickster. The M.O. fits, but Sam hasn't found the thing, and Dean's still dead. He thinks that it'd all go back to normal if he somehow finds the thing again."

"But it's been _months_," Jo intones. And she knows that maybe it was a trick once, but Dean's been dead too long. Besides that, he made a deal. You're dead that long, in Hell, there ain't any getting you back out… Unless you decide to rattle the chains a lit'le.

"I know, girl," Bess sighs. "But Sam's hell bent, and we all know he's willing to risk others for the sake of it."

Jo chews on her bottom lip, hangs her head and then sighs. "Do you know where he is?"

"No don't go getting any ideas, Joanna Harvelle. I don't want you to–"

"I just wanna talk to 'im," Jo drawls, beginning to walk back toward Molly's place. "See if I can make him understand that Dean's dead." She remembers the way it felt back at _Valentine_, Sam pressing up against her like a threat for even uttering Dean's name, the panic and the memory of him in Duluth forever imprinted into her brain. She guesses it wouldn't be easy to get Sam to see logic, see the fact Dean is gone.

But damn it, she'll try.

And she figures Bess knows it too, because the other woman sighs, says, "I heard he was at old Bobby Singer's place the other week. You may want to start there."

"Thanks, Bess," Jo says. "I owe you one."

"Just try not to die, sweetie."

Jo hangs up the phone, irate. She clears the path back to Molly's house quickly, packs her bags and leaves a note. _Gone to see my uncle Bobby. Thanks for everything. I'll see you soon, Jo._ That isn't unusual; she's done it before and Molly'll understand.

Still, the cat watches her like a ghost even as she shuts the door.

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><p>He tries to act normal, for Bobby's sake. Eats all the food, talks about the football game on TV. Truth is, that was more Dean's style. Doesn't matter though, 'cause Bobby's his only friend, and he's gotta make the most of it.<p>

_Not your _only_ friend,_ a little voice rings in the back of his mind. There's a flash of blonde hair and a cocky smile in his vision. A shake of his head and she's gone, just like her card that he threw away. Not like she needs involved with this. Too risky. Too young.

"You heard anything about the Harvelle's lately?" Bobby asks, like he knows exactly what's going on in Sam's head.

And so Sam says, "No," pushing his fork around his plate.

"Guess Ellen finished to Roadhouse… No one's heard from Jo."

Sam grunts, won't look up. No one's heard from her? He wonders if she really did go to Paris. Or if she's dead… And he thinks about her, about the way she's so afraid of him and yet so falsely brave at the same time. The way she has the ability to kind of make him miss her, just a lit'le. And he hates her for it, and hates himself even more.


End file.
